Three's Company
by sandymg
Summary: A rare time Dean accepts help.  Preseries.


**Fic**: Three's Company  
**Author**: sandymg  
**Summary**: A rare time Dean accepts help. (Preseries.)  
**Spoilers**: None  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters.

**Three's Company**

It started with white lights. They flickered in strobe-like fashion and Dean braced. No. Not now. They don't have time for this. Dad wouldn't … and Sam needed him. Not now.

"Dean, you watch our backs, Sam 'n I will do the burns."

He answered yes. Loudly. And the sound rang in his ears. Stupid, freakin' headaches. What the hell was this? He'd thought only girls got these. Sam called them migraines. Smartass would have some fancy-ass name for a headache. Only these headaches were the worst he ever felt in his twenty years on this planet.

The pain was hovering now … looking for entrance, scratching along the top of his skull like a centipede taking a stroll. Soon it would burrow inside, wearing steel-toed boots and doing the Macarena inside his head. He held the shotgun steady, eyes trying to stay focused in a sweep. Dad and Sam were behind him. Counting on him.

It blended into the halo of Dean's vision and so he missed it. He realized only when he heard a yell behind him along with a sharp edged, "Dad!"

Oh god.

Dean spun around and yelled, "Get down!" to Sam before firing off a salt round into the vicious spirit. The ghost's scattering wisps merged with the lights flickering all around him. The recoil of the shotgun blast thundered in his head. Dean staggered and nearly fell. A hand caught him before his knees hit the ground.

"Dean? What's wrong?"

The white was glimmering now … flickering with silver bursts and the throbbing. Oh god. It was starting. He lifted his head to see where their father was. Sam followed his gaze. They saw a puff of smoke over a freshly dug grave and suddenly John was up and staring in their direction. In minutes he was on Dean's other side, grabbing an arm.

"Gotta be his head," Sam said.

"Dean? You okay?"

Dean wanted to say yes. To say that he was fine because it's what he always said. That question was set on autoreply in his head. He started to shake his head yes when Sam jerked his arm. "Bullshit. You almost fell down from the noise of the shotgun. Don't do this, dude. You don't have to be a martyr all the time. If it hurts just say so."

Sam meant well, Dean knew this. But that last loud whine? Friggin' battering ram to his brain. He put his hand on his forehead and avoided his father's eyes. This was the last thing his dad needed. "Didja … is it done?"

John nodded and they started walking to the car.

Back at the motel room their father disappeared into his own room. Dean didn't know what his dad was up to that required privacy. Not like he was entertaining a woman or anything. Just that lately when they were flush with cash he'd get two rooms. It was summer. In the fall when school started again they'd settle somewhere for a few months at least. Dean knew how much Sam wanted to spend the entire school year in one place. He'd be starting his junior year this September. Just turned sixteen. He'd grown so much the last couple of months that he was Dean's height now. Was weird.

Dean disappeared into the bathroom and splashed cold water onto his forehead. Helped sometimes. He downed four Excedrin and came back to a dimmed room. Sam had drawn all the curtains and turned off all but one dim lamp. The kid had his good points.

" 'S bad?" Sam asked.

Dean grunted noncommittally. What was the point in griping? Instead he laid back on his bed and shut his eyes. It helped to just be still. He heard Sam moving around. Entering the bathroom. Coming back out. The sound of the toilet flushing echoed like a roaring waterfall and the pounding got worse. He didn't see the lights any more. Opening his eyes was too much effort and he feared all he'd see was black. God it was bad. An avalanche of boulders slamming up against his eyes from the inside.

The torment concentrated on the right side of his head. Usually did that. Picked a spot and then really hammered him until nothing existed but the blazing pain. He didn't think he'd made a sound but suddenly Sam was there by his side.

"Here," Sam said as something moist hit his forehead. "It'll help."

The cool cloth felt like a momentary balm against the pulsing hot waves. Fingers dragged along his hair, rubbing gently in his scalp. It pulled him back, away from the onslaught. "Did you take aspirin?"

Dean nodded yes.

Sam pulled away and shifted on the bed. Dean wanted to ask him to keep rubbing his scalp but couldn't find the words. The Excedrin would kick in soon. Dull it a little. Didn't stop it. Nothing did except time. These things lasted anywhere from six hours to two days. Fuck. He hated this.

A few minutes later Sam took the cloth and turned it back to the cool side on his forehead. Dean sighed as that chill offered a breath of release from the relentless throbbing in his temple. Hammer, hammer, hammer. Striking as if something was trying to break out from within. Another wave of agony vibrated through his head. This time he knew he'd moaned aloud because a weight hit the bed again.

"Dean?"

The long, thin fingers were back in his hair. His head moved toward them of its own will. "Shit, I wish I could do something," Sam uttered.

A sound at the door startled them both. Sam rose as John entered. Dean opened his eyes long enough to ascertain it was okay. That they were safe before immediately shutting them again. He felt the cloth lift from his forehead. Sam's lighter steps walked away. The water splashed again, thundering like the rapids. Dean held his eyes shut against the noise.

Thick fingers carded through his hair. "How you doin', kiddo?"

Dean forced his eyes open. His father's concerned face beamed down at him.

A loud whisper made Dean turn his head. "Gotta keep your voice low," Sam instructed. John took the cloth from Sam and placed it himself on Dean's head.

The bed dipped and each man took a seat on opposite sides. Dean couldn't remember the last time all three shared a bed at the same time. Had to have been years. It almost could have been nice if it weren't for the ogre army intent on conquering his brain. Truthfully the painkiller had kicked in and there was this slight fog trying to battle the onslaught.

Dean took advantage and tried to sit up. He opened his eyes. "It's a little better." He lifted further and that's when the nausea hit. Sharp and sudden, bile rising quicker than he could swallow.

Luckily, Sam was quick and a trash bin appeared beneath his chin before Dean could blink. A warm, big palm rubbed his back. "We got you. It's gonna be okay."

He heaved again, the pain in his head throbbing in aching spikes. Shit. God, it hurt. His eyes watered as he sucked in air. Slowly he was pushed to lie down again. Sam ran the damp washcloth along his mouth. "I'll get you some water."

A moment later a canteen was placed near his lips and he let a small trickle go down his throat. He felt his father rise and walk away. A minute later another clean washcloth was placed on his forehead. The instant coolness relieved like an icy breath. He sank further into the pillow and worked on controlling his breathing to slow and steady. Sometimes if he was really lucky he could fall asleep and avoid some of the hours of hurting.

John moved up higher and Dean felt his dad settle himself against the headboard and draw his legs up. Strong fingers carded through his hair again in slow strokes. The other side of the bed lifted slightly and Dean felt Sam start to rise. Before he could think he reached out and grabbed his brother's arm, pulling him back. Dean opened his eyes a crack and made out the start of a grin on Sammy's face.

Sam took a spot on the bed, lifting his ridiculously long legs along Dean's side.

Dean let his eyes shut, warmth surrounding him while the cool cloth and painkiller fought back the incessant throbbing. Turning it from excruciating to just painful. Familiar and oddly safe.

The hands switched and the fingers massaging his temples were slight and soft. "Sleep," a deep voice whispered.

And he did.

_**fin**_


End file.
